Scaredy Kat (5 page)

I snickered and took another long sip of Mocha-Cho.

“Schadenfreude,” I said.

“What?”

“It was on our first vocabulary list this year. The month before you came to school. Schadenfreude. It means experiencing
pleasure from something bad happening to some-one else. It’s a good word.”

“It’s fabulous,” Jac proclaimed. Then she looked at her watch.

“Got a date?” I asked.

“Not in so many words,” Jac said. “My mother thinks I’m at Miss Wittencourt’s.”

Miss Wittencourt was Jac’s cello teacher—the one who had nursed her through her block earlier in the year when she suddenly
couldn’t play at all. She had also played an unwitting part in freeing the spirit of Suzanne Bennis, the young flute player
who had haunted the library of our school. I still thought about that bizarre duet she had played with Jac—two performers,
one living, one not. I felt the now familiar butterflies start up in my stomach.

No supernatural thoughts,
I commanded myself.
Picture Houston Ramada behind bars. Picture Jac’s mother behind bars.

“Why does your mother think you’re with Miss Wittencourt?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” Jac said. “It might have something to do with the fact that that’s what she told me to do.”

“Oh,” I said. It hadn’t been sixty minutes yet, and this was technically becoming a cello-related conversation. But my curiosity
got the better of me.

“Why did she tell you that?” I asked.

“She basically commanded me to go and see her today,” Jac said, breaking off a bite-sized piece of brownie, then putting it
back onto her plate. “Because of what happened at the conference.”

“And . . . what did happen?”

Jac sighed, looking up and down the street.

“In a nutshell, it was a networking gig for parents who are determined to lock their children into a lifetime of musical incarceration.
There were seminars on how to increase your chances of getting into Julliard. Seminars on what the major orchestras are looking
for in performers. Seminars on getting agents, on creating a distinctive per-formance personality, on the benefits of investing
in a demo recording. Basically, it was a hundred different ways to completely sacrifice your daily existence to make it two
percent more likely you’ll become one of the tiny sliver of musicians who are able to earn a living in the field.”

She paused, picked up the piece of brownie, then dropped it again.

“And here’s the thing, Kat. Once again, no one ever asked me how I felt about this. No one ever said, ‘Okay, Jac, this is
what’s involved. Is it worth it to you? Are you willing to live like this?’ Nobody ever asks me what I want, Kat. Certainly
my mother doesn’t. She just makes her plans for me, like I’m . . . real estate, or something. I told you, remember, after
the thing with Miss Wittencourt, that I had to decide if I wanted that scholarship. I had to decide if I wanted to play the
cello at all.”

I nodded. “I remember,” I said.

“My mother talked for weeks about how there was so much I could get out of this conference, how . . .
valuable
it was going to be for me in the long run. That it could, like, change the entire course of my future. And I have to say,
it’s the first time she’s been right about something in a long time.”

“Because?”

“Because I did get something important out of the conference. I finally knew what I needed to do. And I did it.”

I waited. Jac crammed the brownie bite into her mouth and chewed it, like it was something she needed to destroy. She opened
her carton of chocolate milk and took a swig. Then she carefully wiped the brown moustache off her upper lip and looked at
me.

“I told my mother yesterday afternoon. And I promised her there was nothing in the world she could do to change my mind.”

She reached across the table and grabbed my Mocha-Cho, taking a long sip through the straw. Something told me not to say anything
or ask any questions. Jac was building up to something, and if I interrupted her she might never tell me. It was worth the
painful sacrifice of the rest of my drink.

“And I feel so much better, Kat. Because I’ve finally done it.”

She plunked the Mocha-Cho back in front of me and took a deep breath. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’ve quit the cello.”

My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’m not sure what surprised me more, that Jac had quit, or that
she had openly defied her mother. Jac had talked about quitting before, but I never thought she’d actually do it. I thought
it was just an option she needed to talk about, so that she felt more in control of her life. Jac and her cello were so deeply
connected. She really was a genius. And she’d been playing almost all her life.

“I don’t . . . I mean . . . are you okay?” I asked.

Jac nodded.

“I am more than okay, Kat. I’m better than I’ve been in years. I feel like this enormous burden has been lifted off my shoulders.
I feel fabulous. I feel . . . free.”

Then she burst into tears.

I didn’t know what to do. I had never seen Jac cry before. And she was doing it kind of loudly. People at other tables looked
in our direction, curious.

I tried to think of something comforting to say, but I drew a blank. Instead, I held out my Mocha-Cho. Jac sniffled, rubbed
at her eyes, then took the cup.

“Go ahead. Finish it,” I said.

She did, sucking on the straw so hard her eyes bugged out a little. She finished the last quarter inch of the drink with a
slurp and placed the empty cup on the table. Then she wiped the tears off her face.

“Oh, that’s better,” she said. “I hate getting all emotional like that.”

“Well this is a huge deal,” I said. “The cello is . . . the cello
was
a huge part of your life. It’s like . . . well it’s almost like you’re getting divorced or something.”

“No, I know. But this has been a long time coming, Kat. It’s what I want. I’m not going to turn into a basket case over it.
My mother, however, is another story.”

“She must have gone ballistic,” I said.

“Whatever,” Jac said ruefully. “She can freak out ’til the cows come home. It won’t change anything. I’m not going to play
anymore, and nobody can make me.”

“Does Miss Wittencourt know?”

“Please,” Jac answered. “My mother called her from the conference. She tried to make me get on the phone with her, but I wouldn’t.
It’s so pathetic, the way my mother thinks she has this power, or something. Like she can just blink, and I’ll be exactly
the person she wants me to be, with the ambitions she used to have, in the clothes she wants to wear.”

Jac’s phone rang, sounding the first few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

“I’ve got to change this ringtone,” she said, pulling out her phone and looking at the screen.

“Oh crud. It’s her.”

She flipped the phone open and answered it. I wasn’t sure if “her” referred to Miss Wittencourt or Jac’s mom, but as soon
as Jac started talking there was no doubt who was on the other end of the phone.

“No, actually, I’m in town at a café. No, I didn’t . . . No, I did not, Mother. You told me to go see Miss Wittencourt, and
I left the house. I never actually said that I would . . . I don’t care. I don’t
care
! I’m out doing some things, and I’ll come home when I’m done. . . . I don’t
know
! Whenever I’m done is when I’ll be done! I . . . you don’t . . . I’m going, Mother. Goodbye.”

Jac snapped the phone shut, pressing her lips tightly together.

“I’m guessing she’s not very happy,” I said.

“I can’t stand this!” Jac exclaimed. “Like she thinks badgering me is going to change my mind? Like her nagging me every second
of every day is going to make me say, ‘Gosh, Mother, you were right. I made a huuuuuge mistake quitting the cello.’ Why can’t
she just get her own life?”

I nodded sympathetically. From the few times I’d met Jac’s mom, I’d found her to be cold, controlling, and more than a tad
judgmental, and she seemed to have no greater goal in life than pulling strings to advance Jac’s musical career. No pun intended.

“She’ll probably come looking for me now, or something. Can we go to your house, Kat? Please?”

I hesitated for just a moment. Even in the midst of all this drama, I was enjoying being away from my house, the spirit orbs,
and Tank. But Jac looked so miserable, her ivory skin streaked with tears. She needed help, and she needed to get away from
the Bean Factory. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see her mother striding down Main Street searching for her daughter.

“Of course we can,” I said. “My mom was in a session when I left, but she’ll probably be done by the time we get there.”

“I don’t even care,” Jac said. “First of all, you have a dog, who you promised was part
my
dog. Second of all, it could rain frogs and ooze ectoplasm all over your house—anything would be better than having to deal
with
her
.”

I wasn’t so high on the frogs and ectoplasm.

But that’s just me.

The car that had been in our driveway when I left was gone, but my mother’s office door was still closed. I was going to suggest
to Jac that we bounce on the trampoline—it was an excellent way to rid oneself of anger. But the sky had been growing increasingly
dark, and I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance.

“We should probably go upstairs until her session is over,” I said, keeping my voice low and gesturing toward my mother’s
closed office door. Jac had made a beeline for Max and was kneeling next to him, her arms wrapped around his neck and her
face pressed into his fur. She remained that way for a moment, then turned her face toward me. Just a minute of dog time had
taken away some of the anxiety from her face.

“Anything you say, Voodoo Mama,” Jac said. “Has your mom baked any of her wonderful cookies?”

It amazed me that Jac could still be hungry after the chocolate-fest at the Bean Factory. It also amazed me that for all her
passionate love of desserts, she probably weighed about ninety pounds soaking wet.

“No cookies, but there are muffins,” I said, leading Jac into the kitchen.

She made an exclamation of pleasure at the sight of the muffin plate and grabbed a large blueberry one. I took two glasses
from the cupboard and a carton of milk from the fridge, and we went upstairs. Max, who hated thunderstorms, padded up the
stairs behind us.

By the time we settled into my room, the rain was coming down in sheets against the window. It was the first good thunderstorm
of the year. A flash of lightning was followed by thunder, and Max crept over to me, tail between his legs, hopped onto the
bed between me and Jac, and curled himself into a tight ball.

“Jac, I’m so sorry about . . . everything that’s going on. Tell me what I can do to help you.”

Jac was stroking Max’s back gently.

“It helps being here now, away from her,” she replied. “It’s only Wednesday—five more days of vacation. That’s going to be
the real challenge, Voodoo Mama. Figuring out how I’m going to survive at home for the rest of the week without going bonkers.
My father is on a business trip in California until the day after tomorrow. Not that he’s ever much help—he usually takes
her side or doesn’t take a side at all. This is like the only safe place there is right now.”

“Well you can come over as often as you want,” I said. “Come over every day.”

“It’s going to be tough,” Jac said, shaking her head ruefully. “I’m telling you, Kat. She is on the
warpath.
I skipped out this morning, but it’s not going to be that easy every day.”

There was another clap of thunder outside. Max gazed up at me unhappily.

“It’s okay, Max,” I said, scratching his head between his ears. “It’s only a storm. It’s not going to hurt anything.”

Max didn’t look convinced.

“Hey, Jac, what about the basic communications project? What if we paired up and worked on it together?”

“Are we allowed to do that?”

“Definitely,” I said. “As long as we both do the minimum amount of pages.”

“Have you started?” Jac asked.

I nodded.

“So what’s it about? What have you . . . what have
we
done so far, partner?”

She grinned at me, and I was relieved to see her looking marginally happy again.

Then I remembered Tank. And the spirit orbs.

I sighed.

“It’s kind of complicated.”

“Complicated in a way I’m going to like?” Jac asked.

I thought about Jac’s strange serenity when it came to encounters in the spirit realm.

“Actually, Jac, it’s complicated in a way that probably only you alone would like. But it’s a long story.”

Jac leaned back regally on my pillows and got comfortable.

“Maestra is all ears, Voodoo Mama.”

I started with how I’d inadvertently caught Tank’s face in a photo of the old house next door. Then I recounted my little
trespassing venture, describing my experiences inside room by room. When I got to the part about the old man, Jac’s eyes grew
wide.